


Duet

by Galadriel1010



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, Gen, Jossed, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: After Sherlock plays his part in the capture of a dangerous criminal, Mycroft plays his. They were friends once, after all.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Duet

**Author's Note:**

> Written back in 2012, before we met the Holmes parents. Thank goodness for Google Drive

Mycroft measured his pace across the empty hall, towards the lone figure still on the half-lit stage. “You gave a masterful performance, Sherlock,” he said, watching his brother turn away from him and raise his violin again. “Our target is, thankfully, secured and already enjoying Her Majesty's finest hospitality. You didn't need to go on with the concert, you know.”

“I couldn't disappoint my public.” Sherlock sniffed and turned back to him to gesture with his bow. “Mr Murgatroyd will be sorry that he missed out; I hear that he was quite looking forwards to it.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft stopped beside the piano and ran his fingers along the lid. “It was regrettable, but in the interests of public safety I felt it was necessary. If he wants it I will, of course, provide him with the recording.”

“Hospitality indeed.” Turning away again, Sherlock brought his bow to the strings and started playing. “I'll let you finish off here,” he called over the music.

Mycroft smiled fondly and reached across the piano to add a bass chord to the tune. “We're finished. All that remains now is to get out and lock up behind us again.”

When Sherlock continued playing, Mycroft hooked his umbrella over the edge of the piano and sat down. The tune danced away, and he struggled at first to keep up with it as Sherlock twisted and turned to escape him. He'd never been able to escape for long, though, and eventually he yielded, let Mycroft in. The tune became familiar, and Mycroft's fingers began to truly dance across the keys, no longer merely following but racing alongside his brother. It was a tune wound into their memories, often heard and played and sung, the melody shared between them over the years.

It reminded them both that the past they shared wasn't all darkness and vicious arguments. Once upon a time their home had been full of music and laughter; dinner parties where they got under feet and dined on stolen canapés, afternoon tea on the lawn with sandwiches they fed to the ducks, and dances that went on long into the night after they should have been asleep, when Mycroft would let Sherlock join him on the roof to listen to the music and smell the distant smoke of cigarettes from the terrace.

Once. Before Mycroft was sent away to school and returned to a different home and a space where their father had been.

The song ended, and Mycroft reached for his umbrella. “If you would rather I locked you in for the caretaker to release in the morning then that can be arranged, but I wouldn't like to have to explain that to John.”

“It would probably get boring before very long at all, especially as they don't open until tomorrow afternoon.” Sherlock picked his violin case up and started packing it away. “I'll join you by the car.”

Mycroft smiled and turned away. A shadow shifted in the doorway and he lengthened his pace, arriving in the foyer in time to see Detective Inspector Lestrade flicking through the fliers for upcoming events. “He plays quite beautifully, doesn't he?” he asked.

“You both do.” Lestrade flicked the edge of the fliers with his thumb and looked down at them again. “I just came to tell you that the last squad car's left, and the caretaker wants to lock up. Couldn't interrupt your playing, though.”

“We were going to be famous musicians once upon a time. Did Sherlock tell you that?” He didn't expect so; he'd never told anyone himself. Without waiting for an answer he continued, “But such childhood dreams are better untainted by adult realities.” He turned for the door and swung his umbrella once. “Come along, Sherlock. Time for bed.”

The doorway smelled of stale cigarettes, and music drifted from a far off celebration.


End file.
